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SCENE SEVEN
The day had been exhausting. Every day was exhausting. There was little respite for the refugees of Governor’s Camp #8. The governor himself was a harsh, belligerent man with no compassion for those under his supposed care. He promised shelter and nourishment to the men and women residing in the nine camps, but it came at a price.
Every refugee, regardless of age or infirmity, was expected to work in the fields tending crops, minding herds, or in the garage maintaining vehicles for the military’s usage. A privileged few were allowed to clean and cook inside the fortress. Bea, like many young women in Governor’s Camp #8, was sought after for companionship by several of the governor’s underlings after the workday was finished. Although she worked from daybreak until sundown most days, she dared not refuse lest she be cast out of the camp into the wild to fend for herself. The refugee camp was terrible, and Bea loathed whoring herself, but the wilds were a desolate place where no life could be sustained. To be cast out was a slow, tortuous death sentence.
Bea picked her way carefully across the camp, her bare feet so cold she could scarcely feel the dirt path on which she walked. Small fires had sprung up in trash cans and rock pits, making the camp appear pockmarked from the top of the hill where many refugees settled for the night. On the outskirts of the camp, on the eastern border, Bea found her friend Dean whittling by a fire in a rock pit. He sat on the ground, his back against a sturdy log. Though his face was hidden in shadow, the flames made Dean’s blond hair glow with tones of orange and red.
“You’ve been gone for three days,” Dean said without looking up. His quiet baritone sounded like roughened sandpaper.
“Deputy Jacobs called for me,” Bea replied just as softly.
Dean snapped his eyes up at that comment, his whittling forgotten. “How bad?”
“The usual.” Bea kept her eyes focused on the fire.
Deputy Jacobs was a wretched, cruel man. He took a perverse pleasure in abusing the girls he dragged to his bed. In the three days Bea had been with him, the deputy had gifted her with a split lip, a broken finger, numerous bruises from being tossed around like a rag doll, and a black eye that was the result of a sharp backhand.
“You look terrible. Come here.” Dean patted the ground next to him.
Mindful of her injuries and tattered dress, Bea did not hesitate in dropping to her knees and scooting closer to the warmth offered by her friend.
“Have you slept at all?” Dean questioned.
“No, of course not. Not since the night before he called for me. I can’t relax that much around him. It isn’t safe,” Bea said softly.
“Being with him isn’t safe!” Dean’s sharp voice cut through the stillness of the night.
“I know, but what choice do I have?” Bea asked rhetorically. She shivered slightly in the cold night air.
Dean wrapped his arm around Bea’s shoulders as he gently tugged her into his side. She capitulated easily. His familiar form was warm and comforting, one of the only places she felt safe. Dean’s other arm came up as well, completing the hug. The faint scent of machine oil, a token of his work as a mechanic, enveloped her and reminded her of a long-ago home. Bea staunchly refused to cry in front of the governor and his underlings, so it was not until Dean spoke again that Bea realized she had tears coursing down her cheeks, the terror and pain of the past few days finally able to be released.
“Shh, you’re safe now. I’ve got you, Sweetheart. You can sleep now.” Dean pressed a kiss to the top of Bea’s head. He continued to murmur soft platitudes while gently rocking back and forth and stroking her hair. Within minutes, Dean felt the tension drain from Bea’s body as it gave in to a much-needed, healing sleep.
Long after Bea settled down, Dean sat staring into the fire. The tiny woman curled in his arms did not yet know it, but a plan to overthrow the governor was being set in motion. The refugees who worked in the kitchens had learned about a contaminated ground water supply nearby. After lights out, the story was passed on to the other refugees. Some came forth with the knowledge of how to collect and weaponize it. For the past few weeks, the refugees in the kitchens had been poisoning the food of the governor and his underlings. It was with a grim smile on his face that Dean reflected on how it was only a matter of time before Deputy Jacobs’s crimes caught up with him.